


Thorns in my Mouth

by Pandir



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Ties of Lapis
Genre: A little bit of necrophilia, A lot of briar heart worship, Blood and Gore, Briarheart, Cardiophilia, Descriptions of open chests and creepy dead bodies, Heart Kissing, M/M, it's not a Real heart but it's all about hearts still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6458635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>With thorns in my mouth, I smile.</i>
</p><p>Gareth is the loyal and devoted right hand of his King, yet he is also haunted by a twisted desire for that which lies inside his King's chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorns in my Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrokoRobin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrokoRobin/gifts).



> Written for Calvindile's [Ties of Lapis](http://ties-of-lapis.tumblr.com/) books, which are actually not about gross heart kinks, but my favourite fantasy story ever.

There’s the trickling of water echoing in the cave as he gingerly treads on the soft, yielding moss beneath his feet. Feathered fern brushes his head and droplets rain down on him, leaving cool traces on his skin. Apprehension overcomes him when he takes another step, and when he approaches, there is a figure waiting for him, still and silent amidst the wet, lush green covert.

“My King”, Gareth says, his words both wonderment and reverence.

Then Cian is before him, the stern, high features of his sunken face sharp and his eyes, teal as water and brown as earth, of an unwavering clarity. His thin, light hair falls over his right shoulder and Gareth feels his eyes inevitably following its flow, until they come to linger on his King’s chest. It always takes him such enormous self-control not to stare, but now he can’t help it – it is bare and open, the gaping hole inviting his gaze. The wound is tied together with leather strips knotted into the torn skin to keep its precious core wedged between the scarred flesh, yet it is not closed, displaying the briar heart inside for all prying eyes. Despite being planted into dead flesh, the seed itself is immaculate and smooth, its thorns tipped with gold and red. Mesmerized, Gareth cannot pull his gaze from the sight.

It is Cian’s voice, low but commanding, that makes Gareth hastily look up again.

There is an edge in his tone, and Gareth feels guilty for even daring to stare like this.

“Do you desire it?”

Heat rises in him at that question, and Gareth all but jerks back. “No”, he splutters, “It belongs to you! I would not-, I could never-“ He stumbles over his words, but all he knows is that he is not ready to lose his heart, his love, his passions, not yet, maybe never. “It is such an enormous sacrifice--!”

Cian’s empty stare is unyielding, yet his voice is not as stern as he takes a step towards Gareth.

“It is a burden I do not bear lightly.”

The gravity of it sends a strange shiver down Gareth’s spine. Without any warning, Cian lifts his hand and brings it to Gareth’s chest, pressing it right on his thumping heart, and Gareth barely dares to breathe.

“I cannot remember it”, Cian states calmly, his palm is cool and unmoving against Gareth’s sternum, “the fluttering of a heart.”

Though his tone is even, there is a sadness to his words that makes Gareth’s heart ache with a sudden, unknown pain.

“You don’t need to”, he hears himself say before he can stop himself, “You have mine.”

His cheeks burn under Cian’s scrutinizing gaze, yet instead of questioning his declaration, Cian nods appreciatively before he withdraws his hand. Gareth wants to explain himself, talk about devotion and loyalty and dedication, yet he finds himself too captivated by the motion of Cian’s long, wiry fingers to talk as Cian lifts them up to the wound in his chest and proceeds to tear at the leather strings, ripping them from his skin in a smooth motion, without so much as flinching.

“I ask you again”, Cian’s voice is low now, but still so clear and distinct, Gareth can almost feel it resonate within him, “Do you desire it, as I desire yours?”

The words to deny won’t come. Gareth's mouth is dry and empty, while his heart is pounding loudly and painfully against his ribs, and he cannot tear his eyes away from the briar heart, so pristine and untouchable, ripe and full. What draws him to it is more than mere curiosity. It is a strange longing, insatiable and overwhelming, that makes his fingers tremble as he slowly and ever so carefully reaches out, mirroring Cian’s gesture.

Yet he hesitates to touch the core within. It seems too daring, sacrilegious even, so his fingers linger on the white, dry skin and follow the rim of the gaping hole that is now torn and frayed where the leather ties have been ripped out. When Gareth dares to at least brush the naked flesh inside, his first instinct is to pull away at the sensation. The skin has been leathery and taught beneath his touch, but not as unsettling as this stillness, this absence of a pulse of life. As his finger tips dip into the crevice, the flesh around them is not wet and quivering, but barren and withered. The hole has been crudely cut, a fissure in the ribcage, and the fractured bones arching into nothing scratch his curious fingers where their white tips stick out of the flesh.

It is eerily like reaching into a corpse, drained and all but cold and rotten, yet to Gareth’s surprise, there is still a faint residue of its former warmth clinging to the flesh like a haunting, lingering illusion of life. He shivers, and almost by accident, his fingers brush over the cool, hard surface of the seed inside, the contact fleeting, but it sends a tremor through his body, shaking him to very core.

The world is turning and he forgets where they are, when they are, and he falls to his knees before his King. He lifts his gaze again to the sight of Cian, now lying beneath him, his hair of his half-shaven head entangled in the dark, damp moss, and the bewitched heart in the folds of his withered flesh in clear view, so beautiful and foreign in this human chest, and it is beckoning him.

There is no other thought in his mind, nothing but the singular desire to touch, to feel, to _taste_. Gareth bends down, following the irresistible pull, his heart beating in his throat. To desire it is outrageous, he knows this, yet Cian lies beneath him, unmoving, his vacant eyes calm and his chest offering what is sheltered within.  
Gareth’s breath trembles as his lips brush the dead skin, so close to the gaping wound, and his hands dig into the cool, damp moss. At the warm breath ghosting over the crevice, Cian’s chest moves beneath him, as if he was inhaling, and the rift containing his heart opens further as ribs extend. It is then that Gareth dives in, thorns tugging at his bottom lip, and he presses a kiss right on the firm and smooth husk of the briar seed, not to desecrate, but to worship.

A shiver runs through Gareth’s body, from his spine to his fingertips, as his lips kiss something timeless, ancient yet thriving, and it stirs beneath his mouth, vast like a bottomless chasm, but quivering at the softest, slightest touch. Elated by the sensation, Gareth opens his mouth to kiss with more intensity, to taste its secrets on his tongue that is so hot against the husk of the briar heart, pulsing with life against its stillness. The thorns scratch and tug at the softness of his tongue, and as he caresses the heart with eager, open-mouthed kisses, it is his blood that he tastes.

A faint noise makes him look up. Cian’s eyes are half-closed, his mind lost in a long-forgotten feeling. The briar heart in his tremoring chest is now reddened with blood, warm and wet, as if it was alive. It is beautiful beyond words.  

Gareth licks his torn lips, unsure, yet yearning very much to proceed. If this might ease Cian’s plight, Gareth is more than ready to give his King all that he abandoned to lead his people to victory - his warmth, his blood, his passion, his love. 

Carefully, reverently, he presses his lips to the bloodied heart that is still so quiet in the chest beneath him.

“I can feel the heat of life in your mouth”, Cian’s voice is low, rich with pleasure, and there are Cian’s cold fingers brushing his neck, gripping Gareth's thick, long hair, and his King's will erases all doubts and qualms.

  
Gareth eagerly opens his mouth and without hesitation, he presses his tongue to the sleek hardness of the seed, undeterred by the thorns pricking his flesh as he licks it, his breath hot and wet and his lips bloodied. Cian’s cold body trembles around his silent heart and it is then that Gareth can sense it, like a prickling on his tongue, an ache that resonates within. With a sudden rush of ecstasy, he is overcome by the distinct awareness that this is Cian’s very essence beneath his mouth, his life and soul, all bare and vulnerable beneath his teeth. It is an elating feeling, and Gareth knows with an overwhelming certainty that there is nothing that he has ever wanted more.

He moans with abandon, a soft needy noise in the back of his throat as his lips are still locked with the surface of the briar heart, his licking now eager sucking and kissing, a mess of saliva and blood, yet he savours the stinging and smarting of the thorns. It might be due to the throbbing of his tortured tongue, but Gareth almost believes that he can catch a faint pulse in the hardened heart, as if it was coaxed to life by his blood-coated kisses. The thought alone is invigorating, addicting, and Gareth cannot get himself to part, to pull his lips from the changeling heart that needs nothing to nurture it, yet readily takes all that he is offering. 

After what seems an eternity, Gareth finally pulls himself away. His mouth is torn and strangely numb, blood dripping from his lips as he draws shaking breaths, his head light and his heart racing. Cian’s eyes are closed and he lies entirely still. In his fissured chest, the briar heart is drenched in blood that is not his own, red droplets dripping from thin thorns, and there are smears of red on the pale skin that is so taught over his collarbone and ribs, the vibrant colour a stark contrast to the drained whiteness.

Then his King opens his eyes, their gaze sharp yet distant, and Gareth does not dare to move as Cian lifts one hand. Cian's fingers carefully dip into the crevice in his own chest to brush over the heart, slick with crimson, while his eyes rest on Gareth’s flushed face. Then he reaches out, and with eerily steady movements, his stained fingers smear a dark streak of blood over Gareth’s chest, right where his heart is beating a loud rhythm against his ribs.

“I take what you offer me”, Cian says, and his lifeless hand feels almost warm as he presses it to the spot he has just marked.  
Gareth swallows a mouthful of blood before he answers, yet his voice is still hoarse. “It is yours”, he manages, a bit breathless still, and painfully aware that his heart is skipping a few beats right beneath his King’s hand. 

*

When it is time to share the food rations between each other the next morning, the others tease him for his bruised and bitten lips, and even more for his flustered, agitated attempts to convince them of the truth - he just bit his lip in his sleep. When they ask for his dreams, Gareth falls silent, gnawing on dry bread instead and trying his very best to ignore the remarks and his own burning cheeks.

All day, Gareth can’t stop tonguing his swollen lips, and each time he catches the faint taste of blood on them, his mind is filled with a longing so strange and forbidden, he barely can stand lingering on it. It fades, eventually, as all desire is dulled by the monotony of working the stone, and his waking hours are dominated by concerns and worries that weigh more than alluring fantasies.

But as much as he tries to control it, to banish all thought of it when he is in the presence of his King, his eyes sometimes wander, just for a short, fleeting moment, to the middle of his chest that so openly displays the bewitched heart, its thorns hooked into the bloodless flesh, and Gareth feels his own blood pulsing loudly in his ears as his cheeks flush with shame and his mouth turns dry with a strong, macabre yearning.


End file.
